Bill hunted for his valet with commendable industry. He searched his own rooms, the servants' quarters and every part of the house where Pete by any possibility might be concealed. He went out to the stable and garage. He made inquiries among the maids. But he did not find Pete, which was an excellent turn of fortune for that young man. Bill was more than angry; he was primed for conflict.
"I'll stand anything within reason," he told himself, "but if Pete Stearns thinks he can ruin me offhand he's got to lick me first."
He gloomed around in his room until it was time for luncheon, and went down-stairs to find Aunt Caroline and Mary already at the table. Bill held them both under suspicion as he took his seat. He glanced from one to the other, searching for some sign that would betray a conspiracy. But Aunt Caroline appeared to be her usual placid self, while Mary Wayne neither avoided his glance nor sought to meet it, nor did she in any wise behave as might a young woman who had guilt on her soul.
Bill ate stoically. Curiosity was burning within him; he wanted to know what Pete Stearns had been saying to Aunt Caroline. But he feared to ask; somewhere there was a flaw in his moral courage whenever he was in the presence of his aunt.
He really had a morbid desire to know the worst, but lacked the hardihood to seek the knowledge boldly. So for a while there was nothing but perfunctory conversation between Aunt Caroline and the social secretary, with Bill affecting preoccupation but listening to every word.
"Miss Norcross tells me you have been discussing plans, William," said his aunt, suddenly turning the talk.
"Huh? Oh, yes; certainly."
He directed a sharp glance at Mary, but it did not reveal to him anything that suggested an uneasy conscience.
"I am glad that you are losing no time," continued Aunt Caroline. "Have you decided on anything definite?"